


Sunshine Every Day

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, F/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Rough Kissing, Seduction, Spanking, Step-parents, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orphaned at seventeen and waiting for Maggie to gain legal custody, Beth is living with a foster mother on the outskirts of Atlanta. Depressed and bored, Beth wishes for something more—and gets more than she bargained for, in the form of her foster mother's enigmatic sheriff boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: This fic features an older man having explicit sex with a seventeen year old. While she is technically legal in Georgia, Beth is not at her most mentally stable; and while all the sex in this fic is consensual, it is not exactly a good idea on Rick's part to allow it, let alone pursue it. This is very much season five Rick, so expect a good amount of darkness and possessiveness. This includes actions that could be read as non-consensual, as well as non-negotiated d/s.
> 
> That being said, hope you enjoy ^^

It took Beth just under six months to lose everything.

Well, not everything. She still has Maggie, such as she is—away in Atlanta as she is, presumably working night and day to get guardianship over her seventeen year old sister. She stayed in school as the farm went under, moved in with her boyfriend when Beth became a ward of the state—but Beth understands. She does. She knows how grief touches everyone differently. With Maggie, it separates the world into things that hurt and things that don't, and with Beth...

With Beth, it sits her at the back window of her foster mother's apartment, resting her chin on crossed arms and watching the stray cats rooting through their garbage.

It's not a bad apartment, Beth reminds herself often; with her help Sandra keeps it clean enough, and they get plenty of light in the living room during the second half of the day. It isn't the farm—nowhere will be the farm, not as long as she lives—but it's fine. It's enough for Beth, for the year she'll have to live here until she comes of age, maybe even less if Maggie gets her stuff together. And Sandra treats her fine; she doesn't welcome Beth home on cold nights with the smell of baking muffins and towels warmed on the radiator; she doesn't sing Beth to sleep or pray with her or send her to bed with a kiss on the cheek. She took a foster child for tax relief and some nights she doesn't even come home.

It's the morning of one of those nights now. Beth lets her eyes slide half-shut, watches her breath mist up the window. Breathes in. Breathes out. Her wrist gives a twinge and she ignores it because it's easier just to not feel anything anymore.

She's in such a daze it takes her several moments to recognize the sound tapping against her consciousness; the steady rap of knuckles on the door.

Beth frowns and straightens, pausing for a moment with her head tilted, like a cat herself as she waits for the noise to repeat itself. This used to be a common sound in her life; the tinkle of wind-chimes as the unlocked door swung open and shut, the sweet song of the bell as her mother passed in and out with herbs from the garden. But Sandra rarely has visitors, and neither does Beth; Patricia and Otis are busy adapting to the new owners of the farm, Maggie is busy in Atlanta, Jimmy is busy with whatever Jimmy does. There is nothing familiar in this room with the sound of knuckles on the door.

Beth pushes herself up from the sofa, grabbing one of the sweaters Sandra leaves lying around to cover the thin camisole she sleeps in. She takes a moment to wonder whether she ought to dress herself more comprehensibly; whether Sandra's visitors even know Beth exists. She decides quickly, though, that is doesn't matter; and with a few steps she's at the door and opening it.

The light from the street is so bright compared to the dim of the hall that she has to take a moment blinking into the glare before she can see who is at their door. By the time her eyes have adjusted, he's already speaking.

“Hello, Miss. Is Sandra in?”

She blinks, and he comes into focus. Not tall, but taller than her. Dark hair, a day's worth of stubble outlining a strong jaw, clear blue eyes like well water reflecting the sky. The clean press of a sheriff's uniform, badge glinting in the sun.

“Not right now, Sheriff,” she says, pulling the sweater tighter around her. His eyes flicker down as she does, and she blushes. “Can I help you with anything?”

He begins the motion of shaking his head, then pauses; tilts his head a bit as he looks at her and Beth feels her whole body heat up. “You mind if I come in for a bit?”

Beth hesitates a moment, the hospitality she's been brought up with warring with her unfamiliarity with Sandra's own preferences—but then the man smiles, disarming, charming, clean straight white teeth between red lips—and Beth finds herself nodding.

The man nods back and walks forward as Beth steps to the side, letting him pass.

“You want sweet tea or something? Lemonade?” she asks, closing the door.

“Got any coffee? Had a hell of a night.”

“Yeah, I can make some.”

“Thanks.”

Beth watches as he takes his hat and jacket off, putting them neatly on the back of the armchair and settling onto the sofa, letting out a breath and resting his hands on spread knees. Beth turns before he can look up and see her watching him, walking into the attached kitchen.

“What do you need Sandra for?” she asks, pulling the filters from the cabinet.

“Just checking up on her,” he says. He makes a groan, like he's stretching, and Beth bites her lip, focuses on the familiar task of scooping out the coffee grounds, turning on the machine. He doesn't say anything else, so Beth busies herself tidying the kitchen as the water filters, trying not to look at the counter, the stains she can't get out no matter how hard she scrubs.

When she brings the coffee into him he's lounging back on the couch, ankle over knee, one arm spread across the back, the other running fingers slowly over his lips. His eyes snap to Beth's as she approaches, and he smiles again.

“Thanks, honey,” he says. He takes the coffee from her, enveloping the mug in large hands. She notes belatedly that it's a bit of kitsch from the hip hop studio Sandra managed until it went bankrupt. Beth feels strangely embarrassed, giving him that mug, but he doesn't seem to mind; just raises it to his mouth, taking a few slow sips. He raises his eyebrows, then takes a longer one. “Perfect temperature,” he says, looking at her over the rim. “Never met anyone could do that before.”

Beth shrugs. “I just pressed the button.”

“You're good with buttons, then.”

Beth doesn't know quite what to say to that, so she shrugs again. The man watches her, sipping again, before nodding at the armchair. “Sit down, gonna make me hurt my neck.” Beth follows his instructions, sitting carefully on the edge so not to dislodge his jacket and hat. She realizes her sweater has fallen open and pulls it closed again, then winds her fingers together, watching him sip his coffee from the corner of her eye. He's looking around the room but also at her and she can't decide if she likes the attention or not.

“You're Beth?” he asks, so suddenly that Beth jumps a little.

Beth looks at him full on, and frowns. “Yeah. How'd you know?”

“Sandra told me she'd taken on a ward. Assumed you'd be younger, though.” He tilts his head again. “How old are you, sweetheart?”

“Seventeen,” Beth says. She doesn't mention that it was only her birthday last week.

“Hmm.” He sips his coffee again, moaning quietly. “This is damn good coffee. Just what I needed.”

“You ok?”

“Hmm.” His mouth twists and he lowers the mug, like he's worried the force of his annoyance will spill it. “Had an argument with my ex-wife last night. My fault, of course.” He says this without an ounce of bitterness. “She wants me taking the kids more, that she needs to work more hours, they need their father. I told her I can't take the time off from work, but she...” He trails off, looking at Beth apologetically. “Sorry. You don't need to know all that.”

“It's fine. Really,” Beth says, smiling a little for the first time in their conversation. There are a few beats of silence. The sheriff looks down into his coffee. “How many kids do you have?”

“Two. Boy and girl. Boy's thirteen, girl's a baby.” His face softens. “Carl and Judith.”

“Those're nice names.”

“Yeah. Carl named her. Lori and I couldn't agree, of course, so when he mentioned one of his old teachers that was that.”

“My brother named me,” Beth says. “He always liked the story of Lazarus; I think he was just into zombies and stuff, but my parents thought the name was pretty, so it stuck.”

“Bethany?”

Beth nods. “Bethany Anne. After my mama.”

Beth waits for the pain to wash over her, the longing; but something in this man's gaze chases it away a bit.

He squints at her. “You're the Greene girl, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I was at the crash site. Heard about your dad too. I'm sorry.”

Beth shrugs, looking at her lap.

A masculine hand suddenly comes into her line of sight; she watches it settle over her own small one, resting on her leg; she feels the brush of his fingers on her thigh as they curl around hers. She looks up, is startled to find him suddenly so close. His blue eyes twinkle with sympathy, but a different kind than the type she has become used to. More sincere, maybe. Softer.

“You need anything, you let me know, alright? Anything at all.” He squeezes her hand, and Beth feels the breath catch in her chest. She hopes he doesn't see the way her eyes flicker to his mouth—it's there after all, bright and red and curling up now, because of course he saw her look, of course—and his eyes are sharper, maybe, as they sweep over her face. They pause on her lips too. “Anything.”

He holds her gaze for a few breathless beats before the door suddenly slams open, jolting them both away from each other.

“You here, Beth?” Sandra's scratchy smoker's voice calls, her slightly unsteady steps telling Beth she's in her heels. “I need you to do some shopping...”

She trails off, and Beth turns to see her eyes locked on the sheriff's. Beth worries, suddenly, that she shouldn't have let him in; that no matter how disarming he seems, he's here for something more sinister than just checking up on her foster mother, that he's...

And then Sandra is tottering forward, not a word of acknowledgement of Beth, and leaning down to kiss the sheriff senseless.

Beth reaches forward to grab the coffee from his hands before he drops it, then sits in silence as she watches them kiss. It goes on for a long time, long enough that she grows a little worried over their ability to breathe. She's just about to get up and leave the room when Sandra pulls back with a smack.

“I didn't know you'd be visiting today, Officer Grimes,” she says, low and sultry and in a manner that Beth finds far too inappropriate to use when your daughter is in the room, foster or not.

“Thought I'd catch you by surprise,” Grimes says, and if Sandra's voice made Beth feel awkward, this is something else; something intense, something _profoundly_ uncomfortable, something that makes her cheeks heat and her hips want to squirm in the seat. Grimes meets her eyes, now, past Sandra's shoulder, and before she can stop herself Beth's tongue comes out to nervously lick her lips. He watches her for a split second longer than a mere glance would allow; then turns back to Sandra, an easy grin on his face. “Have any plans today, darling?”

“Not today. Thought we could go out tomorrow. Get a nice hotel reservation, a jacuzzi...”

Grimes's mouth twists again, even as his fingers stroke her sides. “Can't do it, baby. I have the kids tomorrow.”

Sandra sighs loudly. “This will be the first day you've had off all week, baby.”

“Yeah, which is why I need to spend it with my kids.”

“Surely someone else can take them. Just this once.”

“At this short a notice—“

“I can do it.”

Grimes's head turns smoothly while Sandra jumps, like she's forgotten Beth was in the room. She looks over her shoulder, frowning. “Huh?”

“I can look after them,” Beth says. She takes their continued silence for skepticism, and blushes. “I've babysat tons before, even babies.” She smiles weakly, not looking at Grimes. “Not like I have anything better to do.”

“You need some friends, girl,” Sandra says. Grimes's fingers twitch on her side, and Sandra jumps, spinning around to smack him. “You want a citation for assault, sir?”

“You're the one assaulting an officer,” he drawls smoothly. He turns to Beth, then, and it's as if more than his gaze has left Sandra; for a moment it's like the older woman has vanished, and it's just him and Beth in the room again. “That's something you're ok with?” he asks. “I'd pay you.”

Beth shakes her head quickly. “You don't need to pay me.”

“Gotta pay you back somehow,” he says quietly. She can see his fingers playing over Sandra's hips, tiptoeing like her flesh is made of piano keys. “Think about it?”

“Ok,” Beth says, not quite sure, through her muddled mind, what exactly she's supposed to think about.

“That's settled then!” Sandra says, leaning forward to give Rick another wet smack. “Here, Beth, I need some sleep so you can go to the shops...”

Beth listens as carefully as she can as Sandra goes over what she wants Beth to buy—but in all honesty, Beth knows what they need better than Sandra does, and chances are that in an hour Sandra won't even remember what she asked for.

Beth listens as carefully as she can, but she can't stop her eyes from drifting, now and again, to the sheriff on the couch, watching her, fingers running slowly over his smooth, red lips.

* * *

Beth is in a pickle.

Her hand is, at the moment, quite literally in a pickle. In a pickle jar, at least, trying to reach the last, slimy gherkin swimming in its own pungent juices. She's making sandwiches, in preparation for the Grimes children—wants to look prepared, like a competent, functioning adult, not a little girl with a dead family and a scar on her wrist.

So she's in that pickle. But she's in a bigger one too. A giant one, really, an immense, towering, weeping pickle, inscribed with the name of Rick fucking Grimes.

She's been dreaming about him, see. And Beth Greene doesn't dream.

They start innocently enough.

_She's walking along the side of the road, usually, by a forest dark and moody. It is dusk, or twilight, she can never keep the two of them straight—but she is alone and she is walking and out of nowhere a police car pulls up by her side, emerging from nowhere like some mighty ghost ship._

_And she stops, of course, like the Good Girl she is. She stops, and waits, and waits some more. She steps up to the windows and peers inside._

_And she sees Rick Grimes. Or part of Rick Grimes. She sees his ass. Lean, pale but tightly muscled, two great twisting cords that stretch and bulge as they piston into the body beneath him, moving hard enough to bruise the generous hips that rise to meet his thrusts, the knees covered in spray tan and razor burns._

_She knows it's Sandra's body she sees—the woman walks around in her panties often enough for Beth to know the sight of those knees and thighs—but then she follows the arch of Rick's back. The muscles there just as fine as those in his ass, his spine a line of delicate, fluted knobs. The back of his neck is flushed, she can see even through the dark, the hair at the nape of his neck wet and trembling with his movements. He's kissing Sandra, head bobbing and weaving as their tongues smack obscenely, their moans rising through the glass of the car window. Rick reaches down to palm a breast, and Beth is so distracted by the sight that it takes her a moment to realize what she sees, from the corner of her eye, when Rick drags Sandra back by the hair so he can suck at her neck._

_Because now that Beth sees the woman's face, it isn't Sandra. It isn't Sandra at all._

_Both Beths, in the car and out, open their mouths to scream—_

—and the dream ends.

Every time, the dream ends.

Beth wants it to end. She doesn't want it to end. She doesn't want to think about him like this. She wants to see where this goes.

It's maddening.

She's finally fished the pickle from the jar and is cutting it into thin slivers, forcing herself to enjoy the soothing feeling of the knife cutting through the skin, sliding through the pulp, coming out the other side as the slice she's cut falls away.

She's always loved cooking. It started with her mama in their bright airy kitchen, of course—so much started with her mama, so much that she can barely go a day without doing something they once did together, and she's frightened that as time's gone on the hurt has grown less and less.

She's frightened of a lot of things these days. She's frightened that everyone else in her family seems to be going, and she almost went once; maybe one day fate will strike for her and it won't miss. She's frightened that Maggie will never get her out of here, that she doesn't  _ want _ to get Beth out of here, that she's perfectly content in Atlanta with the boyfriend Mama loved—not like the boys Beth wanted to date, not like the boys she watched while on Jimmy's arm. Boys in leather and ink, thick hands and thicker thighs, spread obscenely as they look her blushing figure up and down. 

Not that she ever talked to them, of course. Beth is a Good Girl. She would never.

Rick Grimes looks respectable. He looks like the kind of man Mama would have liked. But Beth has the sense that he has more in common with the men she watched than the boys she touched.

She needs to stop this, she thinks as she rinses the knife, swipes a towel across it, slots it into the rack. She needs to stop. Rick doesn't like her. Rick likes women like Sandra—women with gusto, with flesh to grab onto—women with  _ age _ , for God's sake, not little, grieving teenagers.

She wonders what his ex-wife is like. She wonders what kind of sex they had, if he made her scream like Beth does in her dream.

She's only met him twice. That first day, when he came to the house and she was wearing a white camisole with a built-in bra that did little to hide her nipples in the chilled room. When he looked at her and touched his lips. She met him then.

The second time was only a moment. He swung by to pick Sandra up, take her to a club or something. He didn't speak to Beth beyond a nod of acknowledgement, but he did something else.

Beth watched him and Sandra in the doorway. Watched Sandra latch onto his neck, tangle her hands in his hair and grab his ass, uncaring of who was watching, inside the house or outside. But Rick did not lose himself in the kiss. He opened his eyes heavy and slow and caught sight of Beth looking; and before she could blush and turn away he was smiling, just as slow, just as heavy; and as she watched and as Sandra kissed him he reached down and without breaking her gaze he adjusted himself in his jeans.

That's when the dreams started. That very night. And now Beth has barely gone a night without them.

She gets the sense that Sandra is not what he wants, who he is. That Sandra is a distraction, a way through the lonely nights. She has no basis for this knowledge, beyond the way he's looked at Beth herself—but God, how he's looked at her. When he touched himself. When she offered to watch his kids. Beth is looking and he's looking back and her blush goes deeper than her skin.

She's just finished sliding the pickles into place with their fellows—roast beef, cheddar, tomato, lettuce, a little bit of mayo all on a bun—when the doorbell goes.

“Beth, can you get that!” Sandra yells from her bedroom.

Beth swallows, takes a moment to collect herself, before rinsing her hands and drying them quickly and walking in double-step to the door.

She opens it and there he is, a pink cheeked baby nestled in his arms.

Beth didn't believe it could happen, but for a moment she's distracted—her face breaks into a smile, a wide, genuine one, as she meets the baby's blinking blue eyes.

“Why hello there,” Beth coos, stepping forward to brush the baby's cheek with a finger. The little girl huddles for a moment closer to her father; then suddenly her pudgy fist is shooting out, grabbing Beth's finger, and sticking it in her mouth, chewing resolutely.

Beth laughs delightedly, and looks up to share her mirth. She's forgotten who she's about to look at.

She remembers very quickly.

Her smile fades into a blush and eyes like saucers as she takes in his expression: a smile playing at his lips, amused and bemused but with something darker in his eyes too, like there's something there beneath the veneer of respectability that Beth is a breath from touching—and it terrifies her just as it floods her with the urge to step forward and fall.

She backs up instead, forcing another quick, nervous smile. “Where's Carl?” she asks.

“At a friend's house,” Rick says, and she forgot how deep his voice is. She wonders if holding a baby, seeing her with a baby, makes it deeper. “It'll just be you and Judith tonight.”

That's something Beth is ok with; she's perfectly comfortable with babies, she can focus on that, on sticky cheeks and diaper powder; not the man holding the baby; not the man.

“That's a shame,” she says, “I made up sandwiches and everything.”

Rick grins. “If Sandra'll be a bit, I can always share'em with you.”

And suddenly being in a pickle takes on a whole new meaning.

But Beth just smiles, steps aside, and lets him in.

He's carrying a baby bag on his other shoulder, she sees, covered in pink and yellow flowers, and it makes something in her chest thump to see something so feminine so close to his knife-edge jaw.

He settles with Judith at the rickety table while Beth darts into the kitchen, patting the sandwich into place and plating it alongside a cascade of salt and vinegar chips. Biting her lip, she takes it into him.

He smiles at her, loose and easy as she approaches, sets the plate before him.

She gestures towards the baby. “Want me to...”

“Go right ahead,” Rick says. He passes her the child, and Beth hefts her up on her hip, surprised by her weight.

“Gosh, you're a big girl,” she says, blowing a tuft of hair off her pale forehead. Judith squeals, and Beth grins, blowing in her face again. “Rick, she's a sweetie.”

She looks at Rick and her breath catches. He has that look on his face again—like he wants to devour something, like he's hungry. And not for a pickle sandwich.

Beth swallows, pulls Judith higher on her hip. “Want some water?” she asks, sounding like she could use some herself.

Rick nods, slowly. “Please,” he rumbles.

Beth nods back and turns, heart fluttering. She goes to the kitchen and sets Judith in the playpen Sandra'd borrowed from the neighbor. Beth reaches up to the cupboard—

And sighs in annoyance. She forgot to run the dishwasher again, and the only clean glass is on the top shelf.

Beth leans onto her toes to stretch. She feels her shirt climb up the small of her back as she reaches, calves straining. Judith babbles happily from behind her and and she can almost almost reach it—

And then she feels a pressure at her back. And the whole world stops.

She can feel him.  _ All _ of him. Well, not all. Not  _ that _ . But everything but. His breath on the back of her neck. His sleeved biceps against her bare upper arms. His lean chest on the length of her back, so close she can imagine she feels his heart beating, slow as a war drum, and something in that calmness, in that intent, makes her  _ thrum _ .

“Need help?” he murmurs.

“Uhh.” It's all she can force out, a breathy little thing, and she can swear he chuckles; doesn't make the sound, but she feels the little puffs of breath on her ear, the way his chest shakes. Beth closes her eyes, closes away everything but the feeling of Rick Grimes stretching behind her, reaching with barely a strain to grasp the glass she was going for.

He brings it down slowly, far more slowly than he needs to, sets it next to Beth's hands where they sit white and bloodless, braced on the counter. He's even more wrapped around her than he was before, shoulders hunched around her slight body, hands slowly coming to frame her own. Even through his shirt she can see the corded strength of his arms; she remembers the sight, the vision of hands in her hair, dragging her back, white teeth biting at her throat—

—and as a breathy moan begins to build inside of her, relentless, dauntless, impossible to contain—she feels it. The barest brush of him, the rest of that all, and it's _hard_.

If it weren't for the low-hanging cabinet, Beth thinks she would collapse right across the countertop. As it is, her whole head feels like it's floating. She doesn't know how long she's been breathing this shallowly, nearly holding her breath as he tests her reluctance, if it exists; when he seems to sense none, he leans in closer and  _ God _ , this is not a boy behind her. This is not a boy at all.

“This ok?” he murmurs in her ear, stroking one of her pinkies with his thumb.

“Yeah,” Beth says, but it doesn't come out how she expects it to. She expects something breathy, barely visible, a wisp of mist. But her voice doesn't do that. It comes out deep, throaty, _adult—_ and his breath catches at it, and he groans, just barely, a flutter in his throat. He pulls a hand from the counter and spans it across her hip, encouraging her forward until she's flush with the cupboard. And he follows. It isn't a grind he begins, but the ghost of one, a ghost in reverse—the remnants of something yet to come, and it's with that rush that Beth realizes that as surely as the sand meets the sea it will _come_.

She's just let out a whimper when a door bangs open from up the stairs and he's gone from behind her.

“Hey babe,” he says, warm, at ease; she hears two sets of shoes walking to meet each other, a quick smack of lips. “Ready to go?”

“You know it.” Beth hears Sandra's heels clipping towards her on the cheap linoleum. “You'll be ok here, Beth?”

“Yeah,” Beth says without turning. She's proud of how even her voice is, but she's worried what her face will give away. “Y'all have a good time.”

“I expect we will,” Rick says. Beth looks back at his baby to find her looking up at her, blinking. Beth bites her lip.

“Have fun,” Beth says.

She doesn't relax until she hears the door close, and then she  _ slumps _ ; collapses back onto her forearms, staring at the baby in her pen.

“Oh Judith,” she says. “Oh Judith. What is your daddy doing?”

_ What am  _ I  _ doing?  _ Beth wonders.

And more importantly:

_ What will I  _ do _? _

* * *

Beth expects things to shift after that. She doesn't know how, exactly; Rick will apologize, or do it again; he'll break off with Sandra, he'll stay out of the house. Beth waits days, weeks, in trepidation, to see what he'll do.

In the end, he does the worst thing possible:

Nothing.

And it drives Beth up the wall.

It's a hot summer's day. Sandra is at work, and Rick is in the backyard, reading the paper. He's been doing this more and more, just hanging around. He usually doesn't even call before dropping by; it's not like Beth ever goes out, she's always there to let him in, and Sandra doesn't mind. He says it's nicer here than at the B&B he's been living out of since his divorce; he gets a bit of sun, an escape from the secondhand furniture. Beth thinks about telling him about the farm, sometime; the chest in the living room that's been there for generations, the fields you could walk for miles and miles without meeting a single soul. She thinks he would have liked it there. But just the thoughts themselves set off a pang in her chest; she doesn't want to know how speaking about them would feel.

So she focuses on other things.

She can see him from her place in the kitchen, where she's wearing her mother's old apron. He's undone his button-up, loosened his belt and shucked his shoes; his biceps shimmer with sweat, and even from this distance, she can see the hints of chest hair peeking out above his wife-beater. He's sitting ankle-over-knee, his foot moving to some tune in his head. His hair is damp, sticking to his neck; he takes a moment to stretch and Beth nearly slices her thumb off with the potato peeler.

Blood wells up across the pad of her thumb. She watches it, seething. The _jerk_.

He comes inside moments later, bringing with him the smell of sweat and the outdoors. It isn't as offensive to Beth as she thinks it should be, and she watches out of the corner of her eye as he folds the paper and puts it on the counter, leaning back with a sigh. He's eyeing her, and her cheeks flush as his gaze crawls overtly down her body. She should have known not to wear cropped shorts on a day he was coming over; or maybe that's exactly why she wore them. She doesn't feel she knows herself well enough anymore to be able to tell.

“Hot day, huh?” she says, just to break the tension in the room. She sees his smirk out of the corner of her eye and she releases a silent groan.

“Very,” Rick says.

“You and Sandra going out—“

“What happened?”

Beth frowns, turning to him fully. “What?”

He jerks his chin, and when she continues to look confused he walks forward. She takes an involuntary step back until she's against the counter and then he's there, looking down at her, taking her wrist in one warm hand. He raises it and cradles her hand in his, stroking along the edge of the angry red line on her thumb.

“Oh, that,” Beth says, trying hard to sound nonchalant. “My hand slipped, got it with the peeler.”

“You ought'a clean this.”

“I will when I'm done; no sense cleaning it if it'll just get dirty right after, right?”

Rick turns her hand, examining her thumb from a different angle. As they watch, a bead of blood wells up, elastic and shimmering; they both hold their breaths until suddenly, it breaks, weeping down the curve of her thumb.

“Gonna get blood in our food,” Rick murmurs. His eyes turn from her thumb to her eyes, and Beth feels even the blood outside of her shiver. He lowers his chin, long eyelashes fluttering. “Not saying you aren't delicious, of course.”

Beth realizes then how shallow her breathing is, how close he's standing, and she feels something inside her—barely standing after the loss of her family, the wait for Maggie, the alienation of the last few months—finally bend and break.

She licks her lips, and pushes her hand closer to him. “Help me clean it, then.”

He looks at her, blue eyes deep, saying something she can't translate, would not try to if she could; and without breaking her gaze he brings her thumb to his mouth.

Beth's breath catches when she feels his breath roll across her flesh, damn near whimpers when he pulls her farther, leaning his head down, pressing her thumb to his lips. It's a soft kiss, barely there; and when he pulls back an inch there's a burst of vermillion on his already red mouth. Beth bites her own lip, and with deliberation, with intent, brings her thumb back to his lips, parts her lips as he parts his, leaning in, letting her paint her blood across his mouth. When they're covered, she pauses, hovering above his flesh; he blinks, slow, lingering, and then with a sound like a growl pulls her thumb forward to envelope it in his mouth.

For a moment he just just holds her there; plush lips wrapped around her to the joint, eyes holding her own in their depths. She can see herself in his pupils; not in any detail, but she can see: eyes like saucers, mouth gaping open like she wants him in there too. His mouth is warm, and wet; and as she stands there she feels the first touch of his tongue.

It brushes lightly, so light, across the cut; but it still stings like hell and she jumps a little, making him freeze, stare at her. He tilts his head, almost in question, tongue withdrawn. She almost laughs at the sight. He reminds her of a picture she'd seen on the internet, of a dog with a pacifier in its mouth—except he's no dog, and she's never known a pacifier to pulse like she's pulsing, pounding in a rhythm that resounds in her skull and between her legs. She keeps her face straight, though; looks at him, simply looks, hoping somewhere in her eyes is a challenge.

This time the slide of his tongue is harsh, deliberate, and her moan surprises them both.

They're both breathing heavily, she realizes, her through her mouth and him through his nose as his eyes slide nearly closed, like he's relishing the taste of her, the potatoes, her blood. He alternates between broad strokes against her thumb and careful tracing of the cut, like he's _lapping_ at her, drinking her down—and when he starts to suck her knees buck so violently that she falls back against the counter.

“Rick—“

“Hmm,” he answers, humming around her digit as he slides his lips up and down, wetting her flesh and leaving it to prickle in the cooler air outside his mouth. He looks at her, flicking between her eyes; then he's stepping forward and he's there again, except closer, so much closer, actively pushing her against the counter. One of his hands goes to her waist and yanks, dragging her forward as he pushes her back until they're fused chest to groin and the sound he makes around her when she inadvertently rocks her hip against the bulge in his pants is nearly inhuman.

“Rick... God...”

“Use your words, baby,” he whispers around her, but she can't, she can't say a thing; just shakes her head and grips his arm as he slides down to her knuckle and drags up. She moans as his teeth scrape across the cut, opening it further, letting more blood spill into his mouth, and he _shudders_ ; presses so close her arm is trapped between their sternums and she can feel the hot blasts of air from his nose across her cheek. One hand still holds hers while his other slides to the small of her back and up under her tank. She almost feels embarrassed by the wealth of sweat he finds there; then he scrunches his fingers and drags his nails down her spine and she forgets how to feel anything at all.

“Rick...” she says again, wanting to kiss him, bite his neck, widen her thighs and let him slip between them, make her _feel_ the heavy throb between his legs—

—and the want comes in such a heady rush that it terrifies her, makes her jerk her thumb out of his mouth and her hand from his and lean as far back across the counter as she can.

They both freeze. Rick's mouth, turned rusty from her blood dried and cracked, hangs open as he breathes, almost pants.

He searches her face and leans forward an inch; she jerks, and he stops; pulls back and tilts his head; then with a violent sigh out his nose steps away and turns his back to her, bracing his hands on the opposite counter.

Beth rests her hand on her chest, as if trying to capture the heart beating like a hummingbird's between her ribs, struggling to catch her breath. Rick's shoulders are taut, tight, rigid like a crossbeam above his bowed spine. He's soaked through the back of his shirt until the fabric is nearly translucent, outlining every ridge of muscle.

With a swallow, Beth steps forward. “Rick?”

His shoulders shudder, then drop, at the sound of his name; he shakes his head, breathing out again.

“I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to—“

“I lost control—“

“I was overwhelmed—“

“Just want you so bad...”

The last comes out as a whisper, and Beth's breath catches. She bites her lip, and steps forward again; Rick twitches when her hand touches his shoulder blade.

After a moment, she rubs her hand up and down, as soothing as she can. “It's ok,” she says. “It's ok, Rick. You didn't do anything wrong.”

He snorts violently, turning around. He pauses as his eyes meet hers, and she wonders what he sees; she can feel her cheeks still flushed, and damp with sweat; her hair sticks to her face and neck and her lips feel dry for hanging open. But he doesn't look shocked, or disgusted; he looks agonized.

“How's this different from that other day in the kitchen, huh?” she asks, feeling brave. He opens his mouth, but she continues before he can speak. “It's cause it ain't just your fantasy anymore, right? It's mine too, and you know it, and that makes it real. Ain't just teasing anymore.” Her eyes flicker between his, and suddenly she's disappointed. “That's what it felt like, right? Pretend? Play around with the poor, sad orphan who won't say no?” Beth waits, but Rick doesn't say anything. She nods, stepping back. “Maybe you ought'a get going,” she says softly. “I have to finish dinner.”

“Beth—“

“Just go, ok?” she says. She tries to smile, and knows it falls short; but she tries. “I'm young, right? I'll get over it.”

“You are young,” he says softly. Beth tilts her head. He nods; takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a rush.

And in a moment, he's collected again; sweaty and flushed, but calm. Protector of the community. A sheriff.

He tips his head towards her. “Have a good day, now.”

He turns, takes up his shirt, his hat, and leaves.

Beth stands, still and silent, for many minutes before her whole body gives a violent shiver. She steps back until she's against the counter again, leans on it with shaky arms. She tips her head back, bares her throat to nothing.

It isn't until she pushes off the counter to return to the potatoes that she notices the pool of blood she's left on the faux granite.

She stares at it a moment, face blank, then turns away.

* * *

Beth surveys their small living room and sighs.

She'd woken from a nap with a burst of energy, decided to put it to good use and tidy up a bit. She's been at it for hours now—dusting behind the TV and sweeping the porch, even digging an ancient vacuum out of the utility closet and giving the place a good run through. She'd had to empty the bag twice in order to finish the whole house, and now she stands, covered in sweat and dust, searching in vain for something else to do. She finds nothing. The books are straightened and alphabetized, surfaces clear, floor spotless. She only hopes Sandra isn't the kind of person to take offense when someone cleans up without her knowledge.

Beth's about to let herself collapse on the couch when the doorbell rings.

She freezes, slowly turning to the door. There's only one person who ever visits, and he's the last person she wants to see right now. She hasn't seen him since that hot day in the kitchen, not really—he's picked Sandra up a few times, but never come inside, and Beth didn't look to see if he was looking at her. But today Sandra is out, and Beth's alone—and the prospect of seeing him both thrills and terrifies her.

It's an inconvenience that she looks like she'd just had a wrestling match with a dustbin—but maybe that will make things less awkward, remind him... she doesn't know what it should remind him of.

Not of sucking off her thumb, licking at her blood like it's made of honey. Not of grinding himself into her hip. Not looking at her like he wants to eat her whole.

No. Nothing here to remind him of that.

Beth straightens, takes in a deep breath, and goes to answer the door.

It takes her a few moments to understand what she's seeing.

“Jimmy?”

“Hey, Beth,” he says, smiling shyly.

Beth blinks, sure she's dreaming. “Jimmy,” she says again. “What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you,” he says. He shifts nervously, looking at his feet, then back up. “Mind if I come in?”

“Um. Yeah, sure, c'mon.”

Beth steps back to allow Jimmy inside, closes the door behind him. She watches as he surveys the place silently and Beth is thrown back, years and years to the first day she met him. It was the week before the first day of kindergarten, and Beth's parents were throwing a party for all the kids and parents in her small class. She spent most of the party hiding behind her mother's skirts until Annette pushed her towards her best friend and his boy. Something about him had made her feel comfortable, safe; so with some more prompting she took his hand and led him into the house, gave him a tour, showed him her room.

She hasn't thought of this day in years, not even when she and Jimmy first started dating. But as she watches the look on his face she sees him comparing it to the day he met her, what she used to have; and Beth feels that familiar emptiness open up in her gut, ready to swallow her whole.

“It's nice,” Jimmy says turning to her with a smile. He still looks nervous, desperately so, and Beth feels suddenly irritated. It's his fault he has barely spoken to her since her daddy died. He should feel nervous.

But no. That's unfair, and mean spirited. He's a good boy; he doesn't deserve it.

Beth forces her own smile. “Wanna sit down? I can get you Coke, lemonade...”

“Um, I'm fine.” He wipes his palms on his jeans. “I just wanted to... to come by and see how you were. You know, how you're doing.”

“Oh. Um, I'm fine.”

“Cause I know I haven't really been, you know, around.”

“Yeah,” Beth says. She doesn't reassure him. That _is_ something he does not deserve.

“Yeah, I'm sorry, I just... I dunno, I panicked.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the floor. Suddenly he brings his hand down to his thigh, smacking it slightly and looking up and making Beth jump. “Dangit Beth, I just... I love you so much. I love you and I didn't know how to deal with it.”

“Jimmy—“

“But it'll be better from now on, I promise—I'll come over every day after work; and we can go boating on the weekends, and riding, and there's that old diner you always liked—“

“Jimmy,” Beth says, still gently, but more firm. Jimmy's mouth snaps closed. “I really appreciate this. Really I do. It's just...” Beth sighs. She takes a few steps forward until she has to look up at him. “That girl you say you love... she isn't here any more. You and me, that's another life for me. There's too much that's happened, too much I've gone through that you weren't there for.” Beth reaches out and takes Jimmy's hands, trying to catch his downcast eyes. “I'd love to do all that stuff you're talking about,” she says. “Cause I've really missed you. But I don't know if I can be your girlfriend anymore.”

“That's ok,” Jimmy says. “Really, it's ok, it's... it's more than I expected, to be honest.” He chuckles nervously, rubbing his neck. “I've been a real dick, huh?”

“Yeah,” Beth says, smiling fondly. She pauses, looking at his kind, familiar face; his thin pale lips that gave her her first kiss, his hands that touched her, his body that loved her. Or tried to love her—it had been the first time for both of them, and it hadn't gone particularly well, and Beth's mom and brother died only a few days later so they never tried again—but still. It was her first, and she did love him, after a fashion. He was sweet to her, and gentle. Up till the last few months, the perfect boyfriend, really.

Beth's starting to realize that maybe perfect isn't for her. That perfect is always on the cusp of becoming un-perfect.

That maybe perfect is the exact opposite of what she wants.

“One for the road?” she asks. Jimmy looks at her, confused. Beth giggles. “One last kiss, I mean. To say goodbye?”

“Oh,” Jimmy says, understanding. He smiles and chuckles with her. “Yeah, ok.” He stands, nodding and smiling. Beth raises her eyebrows. He jerks. “Oh, oh right,” he says. He steps forward, brings his arms around her. Beth takes a moment to just press herself against his chest, inhale his familiar scent, the slightly unpleasant scent of his sweat mixed with grass and hayseed. She squeezes him once around the waist, then looks up, smiling. He smiles too, and presses his lips to hers.

For a last kiss, it isn't particularly extraordinary, and Beth realizes—with Jimmy's hands resting static on her back, his hips a stately distance away, his mouth closed and demure—that none of his kisses have been extraordinary. None of them. Not even when they were naked in the hayloft together did Beth feel what the movies say you're supposed to feel when you're kissed—fireworks and explosions and butterflies all over. It was always nice. Jimmy was nice. This kiss is nice.

Beth doesn't want to be nice anymore.

Just as Jimmy's about to pull back, Beth reaches a hand into his hair, opens her mouth, and bites him.

It isn't a particularly hard bite—more of a nip, really, at the center of his mouth—but it still makes him jump. She doesn't let him move his head away from hers, but she can feels his eyes open, look at her, confused. She's never bitten him before. She's never stopped him from pulling away.

She's certainly never stepped flush with his body and shoved her tongue through his closed lips.

Beth forces a moan over Jimmy's shocked little squeak, sinking her other hand into his hair as well and pulling him down towards her, rising to her toes to meet him. She strokes her tongue across his teeth, but he still seemed confused; and with a little growl Beth yanks him back by the hair and opens her eyes, glaring at his bafflement.

“Come on, Jimmy,” she says, not trying to disguise the anger suddenly surging in her gut. “Make me _remember_ it.”

Jimmy blinks and shakes his head. “Beth, I don't—“

Beth interrupts him again and drags him down and bites his lip,  _ hard. _

Jimmy groans, and clutches her tighter.

It still isn't what she wants, what she's chasing, but she'll take it—Jimmy's hands moving a bit, trying to keep up with her undulating body, one pinky sliding by accident below her waistline. Beth moans, far louder than necessary, grips him tighter, and Jimmy finally seems to get it—with a small groan he slides his hands up her back under her shirt and pulls her into him. She pushes a thigh between his hips, rubbing, rubbing,  _ desperate _ to feel some sort of hardness against her, some proof of his want—and she's just brought her hand to the button of his jeans when the door swings open.

She ignores it at first—she's walked in on Sandra and Rick sucking face enough times, Sandra can deal with it once—but Jimmy doesn't seem to be able to; he yanks his face away, struggling against her stranglehold on his hair. She groans in annoyance, shoving herself up on her toes to press one last, hard, kiss to his lips—then falls back to the balls of her feet. She moves her hands from his hair and crotch to his waist, licks her lips. She smiles up at him, and turns.

Sandra's standing just inside the door. She has shopping bags covering both arms, all from mid-range clothing stores. She looks between Beth and Jimmy, eyes wide, looking mildly impressed.

But she isn't what makes Beth's smile slide from her face.

Rick is beside her. And he doesn't look impressed.

Not at all.

“Well now, we are _so_ sorry to interrupt,” Sandra says, glancing back at Rick in amusement, too quickly to take in his expression. “We'll leave you the downstairs—“

“Actually, I was thinking of going anyway,” Jimmy says. He's still a little breathless, but Beth hears fear in his tone. He's looking at Rick too. He looks at Beth, and pulls his hands off her. “That, uh, that ok?”

“Of course,” Beth says, smiling as sunnily as she can. She glances at Rick, pauses, then goes on her toes and peck's Jimmy's lips. “I'll text you tonight? Figure out a time to meet up?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's ok,” Jimmy says. He looks more confused than ever. “Yeah. Um. See you then.”

Jimmy steps back, then walks stiffly towards the door; Beth realizes she's made him hard, and he doesn't want to show it. Sandra steps farther into the house to get out of his way—but Rick doesn't move. Just stands in the door, motionless; Jimmy ends up having to edge through sideways, sucking in his stomach so he doesn't touch him. Once outside, Beth sees him begin to run.

Beth looks at Sandra. Beth doesn't look at Rick.

“You need help putting stuff away?” she asks, following her to the couch where she's set down her bags.

“No, no, most of this is going back anyway; too lazy to try it on at the store, figured we'd have a fashion show.” She grins toothily, then suddenly grimaces, putting a hand to her stomach. “Ugh, I should _not_ have had that slurpee.” She starts to step away, then turns to Beth and sticks a finger in her face. “You're giving me _all_ the deets on that boy later, you hear?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Beth says.

“Good. Y'all get comfortable, I'm cooking tonight.”

Without another word, Sandra goes down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door with a resounding click.

Beth forces herself to stand still; to relax her shoulders, to breathe normally. She sets a pleasant expression on her face, clasps her hands, and turns.

And all of her efforts at composure shatter.

His gaze is  _ burning _ —so hot and deep she imagines she can hear her own flesh sizzling, smell the cooking meat as he glares at her. She's never seen this look on a man's face before, never known anger like this.

“A lot cooler than yesterday, huh?” Beth says, praying her voice doesn't crack. He reaches back slowly to close the door and she doesn't dare tear her eyes from his. “How's work been—“

He moves like lightening. One moment he's by the door and she blinks and he's in front of her, grabbing her hair with one hand and her shoulder with the other and dragging her in, slamming their mouths together.

Beth doesn't have to fake her cry this time as they collide painfully, her lower lip catching between his teeth and hers as their cheekbones crash. For several moments her lips remained closed, her mind too stunned to move; then he growls, takes the hand from her shoulder and grips her jaw, grips it  _ hard _ , and drags it down to shove his tongue halfway down her throat.

It isn't comfortable. It's harsh, it's  _ painful  _ as he squeezes her jaw and yanks on her hair and kicks at her legs until she stumbles into him—

—and she's burning. She's burning, she's exploding, she's fucking _erupting_ , and when she sinks her own hands into his hair and moans his hand leaves her jaw and he yanks her forward until he can rub himself on her stomach, hard, hard and practically bursting through the zipper in his attempt to reach her as he swipes his tongue between her teeth and her lower lip, and she realizes he's tasting her blood again—

And Beth's eyes snap open. And she wrenches herself back. And she slaps him full across the face.

For one terrifying moment she thinks he's actually going to hit her. He stares at her with such shock, such building outrage that she quails, shrinking against the hold he still has on her hair. But he doesn't move a muscle; just stares at her until she stops struggling. His nostrils flare like dragon caves and his lips shine bitten red and the blue of his eyes is nearly obliterated by a thick ring of black.

And Beth is wet. She's soaked. She's practically flooding.

But if he let her go she wouldn't fall.

The sound of the toilet flushing breaks their silence, and then he does let her go, slowly; making it clear it's his own choice that lowers his hands to his sides. But otherwise he doesn't move—stands close enough she can feel each fierce breath on her bared teeth and she's sure he can feel hers on his. His eyes flick between hers and down to the blood on her lip—

—and he smiles.

And the bathroom door opens.

Sandra emerges just as Rick steps away, and his manner changes completely. Beth can hardly believe it as he seems to slide into another another skin. He smiles easily at Sandra, kisses her on the cheek, whispers something in her ear. She giggles, and keeps walking as Rick vanishes into the bathroom she vacated.

Sandra begins talking to Beth about she bought, what she's thinking of making for dinner, the rude clients at work today—but Beth doesn't hear her. Not a word.

Rick looked back at her before the bathroom door closes. One look, one glance, barely a moment—but it was not a genial look. It was back to burning, back to searing. As she stared he brought a hand down to his crotch and gripped it tight. There's no doubt what he's gone to do in that bathroom.

Sandra talks, but Beth doesn't hear.

She's too busy flooding.

* * *

Beth spends dinner staring at her plate, pushing her food around far more than eating it. Sandra and Rick talk easily; neither attempts to engage her. Beth is fine with that, more than fine; it gives her more time for her thoughts to swirl, for her heart to pound, for her swelling lip to throb.

It isn't until Sandra's gone to the kitchen to do the washing up—waving off Rick's offer to help—that Beth feels him looking at her.

“Beth.”

Beth looks up, and starts. He has a look on his face she's never seen before. He looks... hesitant. Unsure.

“I just wanted to check in with you,” he says. “How you've been. We don't talk all that much...”

Beth raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, we sure don't.”

Rick's eyes darken a little. “Watch your tone,” he says. Beth's insides shiver at the gravel of his voice, but her gaze doesn't waver.

“Why don't you make me,” she says quietly.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then Sandra's back, sliding each of them a mug of ice cream, and again his mask comes on. He smiles at his girlfriend, pecks her chocolate stained lips. He doesn't look at Beth at all.

But it isn't like last time. Beth is hungry now, ravenous. She watches Rick—sees the tick of his jaw, the tapping of his hands—and down to the varnish, she eats every bite.

* * *

It's around 2am when Beth stirs in her bed. She moans into the pillow at the press of her bladder, cursing herself for forgetting to pee before going to sleep. With a sigh, she swings her legs to the floor, scrunching her toes in the carpet a few times before pushing to her feet, stumbling a little as she steps towards the hall.

She's coming back from the bathroom when she hears it.

Harsh grunts. The sound of a slap. Breathing.

Beth freezes in her tracks, standing still like a deer in the hunter's sight. It doesn't take a genius to guess what those sounds mean. She knows Rick stayed the night. She knows how that works.

To her right is her bedroom. To the left, Sandra's.

Beth sees a sliver of moonlight cutting across the hallway floor. The door is not closed.

Beth turns left.

She knows that Sandra's door creaks if it's opened too fast, so she goes slowly, inch by inch, until she can peek inside and find the bed.

When she does, she knows how bad an idea this was.

They're lying backwards on the bed, feet by the headboard. Sandra's arms stretch above her head, gripping the iron rail at the foot like she's clinging to the edge of the earth. Beth can't see her face well, but she can hear her, little whines and gasp that match the rhythm—

—the rhythm of the man on top of her. Of Rick, bearing into her, leaning down now to swipe a tongue across her nipple. Sandra moans, low and loud, and Rick growls, sinking a hand into her hair and yanking her head back, biting into her neck. Beth can see Sandra's mouth working but the words are too quiet to understand—but Beth can imagine. She feels hot all over, tingling, as she watches the movement of their hips, of his—snapping into her cunt, setting a hard steady rhythm that Beth finds her heartbeat matching. His ass clenches and Beth is thrown back to her dream, to the bouncing breasts and shining back and looking up and seeing—

—not Rick kissing Sandra. No, he isn't kissing Sandra any longer, and Beth knows first because she's whining for it, head still tipped back and begging. It takes a moment longer for Beth to understand what exactly is happening.

Rick is not kissing Sandra. He is not looking at Sandra.

He is looking at Beth.

“Yeah,” he growls, and snaps his hips suddenly, hard, making Sandra squeal, “You like that, hmm? You like it don't you, dirty girl?”

“Yes, yes I like it,” Sandra pants.

“Show me, then,” Rick hisses. Beth feels frozen. Sandra, too, seems confused, and starts to follow Rick's eyeline before he shoves her cheek into the mattress. “Show me,” he orders.

And Beth gets it. Lord, she gets it.

It takes her several tries to really get at the ties of her pajama bottoms, her hands are shaking so bad, but eventually she does, pulling out the bow and putting a hand on her stomach, wincing a little at the cold of her fingers.

“Show me,” Rick breathes.

Beth is dimly aware of Sandra doing something between their legs, but pays it no notice. Only bites her lip and pushes the door open a fraction more, grateful for the dark of the hall. Rick's pace has slowed to a rhythmic sort of rocking, making Sandra moan in protest, try to urge him on with her hand until he slaps her away. His hand still pins her cheek to the mattress.

“ _Show me.”_

And with a breath that trembles through her whole body, Beth slides her hand beneath her pajama bottoms.

She forgot that she isn't wearing underwear and gasps aloud at the shock of how wet she is, her clit already slick and ready. She closes her eyes for a moment, just feels herself there—her heartbeat pulsing through her clit, the sticky heat of her curls and the flesh beneath, how _ good _ it feels to cup herself even as it's torture to remain on her feet. Her mouth drops open and she sighs, tipping her head back, feeling—

—and then Rick snarls and Sandra moans and Beth's eyes snap open so fast it hurts.

“Good girl.”

He's going faster again—long rolling thrusts that Sandra arches up to meet, pushing her feet against the mattress as Rick stares at Beth in the doorway. Beth begins to circle her fingers on her clit and her knees nearly buckle, and she clings to the doorframe with her other hand as Rick nods and licks his full lips.

“Rick... Rick...” Sandra pants.

Rick snarls, shoving at her face. “Shut up,” he growls; then he glances at Beth and stops moving to hook his arms under Sandra's thighs and shove them into her chest. “Hold them.”

“Yes—“

“Yes,” Beth whispers as Rick begins to move again, his face screwing up in pleasure at the new position, bearing down fiercely until Sandra's grunts sound at the edge of pain. Beth's legs are trembling, her body is shaking, the wet is beginning to drip down her thighs and Rick is still looking at her, blue eyes wild—

—and before Beth knows it she's coming, _drenching_ herself, shoving her open mouth against the back of her hand on the doorframe, desperately trying to muffle her cry. 

She needn't have bothered, because Sandra comes at the same moment, not bothering to be quiet, thrashing as much as she can beneath Rick's body—and Rick keeps going. Even as her moans  _ do _ become cries of pain, even as she desperately tries to push him away from her oversensitive clit, he goes, pounding and pounding.

And as Beth comes down panting he suddenly stops moving and drags himself from Sandra's body.

Beth can't contain the whimper she gives at the sight of his cock—longer than Jimmy's, thicker than Jimmy's, covered in a rubber that shimmers in the moonlight as he rips it off, throwing it to the corner of the room as he grips himself, back bowing. Beth's fingers spasm against her clit and her own body crunches, tears springing to her eyes as she bites her hand desperately and Rick begins to stroke—long, slow pulls that speed up, faster and faster until his hand is only a blur in the dark. The muscles of his arm stand out roping and tight as he braces himself by Sandra's head.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers, and Beth knows he isn't speaking to her. “Eyes closed and mouth open, baby.”

And she obeys. Without question she obeys, tilting back her head and opening her mouth and Beth feels a spike of heat as she imagines herself in the same spot.

And then he looks at her; one last time, he turns his head, catches her with his gaze like she's a rat in a trap. He inclines his head and Beth nods desperately and he speeds up again, watching her and pumping and pumping until his face screws up and he comes in long roping jets across Sandra's breasts and face.

Beth's own orgasm shudders through her moments after. It isn't as intense as the first but it still makes her collapse against the doorframe, eyes closing as she lets herself shake, tremble her way through the aftershocks. When she opens her eyes Rick and Sandra are tangled up again, kissing—Beth can see his cum shining on his chest, smeared between their mouths, and she feels like she might faint. She nearly does, when Rick looks at her again—eyes low and heavy-lidded and sated, yet no less predatory. As Beth closes the door as quietly as she can, she sees it again—that blood-curdling, savage, ferocious smile.

Beth lets herself lean on the closed door, wipes her shaking hand off on her pajamas; tilts her head back and tries to steady her breath. There are no more sounds coming from the bedroom; they might even be going to bed.

There's one thing Beth knows.

She isn't sleeping a wink tonight.

* * *

This ends up being not entirely true.

Beth does sleep, but on the sofa downstairs _. _ She couldn't go back to her bed, not after seeing that; and so she grabbed a clean pair of pajama bottoms, washed her hands, and came downstairs on shaky legs. She drifts off in the middle of  _ Pawn Stars _ , spread out on her stomach, one arm dangling from the couch, the other curled beneath her cheek.

She is aware of three things when she wakes. First, the TV is off. Second, the hand she's lying on has fallen asleep, and the other is freezing, lying so far from her body as it is.

But Beth cannot fix these issues. She cannot move. For just as her hand is cold her back is heated to the edge of sweat by the man crawling onto the sofa on top of her.

“Rick—“

“Shh,” he says, reaching out to stroke her hair out of her face. “You rest, baby girl. You deserve it.”

She hears the smile in his voice, his masculine glee at getting her off through the sight of his body alone. But he knows, he must know, that she could never fall asleep now; not as he lowers himself until nearly his entire weight is on top of her, supported by one elbow and his knees.

He continues stroking her hair with the other hand, brushing it away from her cheek and neck, then simply running his hands through it. And as time goes on Beth is shocked to find she  _ is _ growing sleepy; his warmth, his steady rhythm, is enough to set her drifting.

That is, until he releases the tension in his knees; until his naked cock burns into her through the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms.

Beth whimpers, bringing her hand up to the sofa to scratch at the fabric. She feels Rick chuckle above her, press a kiss to her uncovered neck.

“Pretty neck,” he murmurs. “Pretty girl.” He strokes her side, soothing. “Want me in your pretty pussy?” he whispers.

Beth moans, feeling him begin to circle his hips—barely a movement, little more than a change in pressure, but it send lightning bolts of pleasure through her as he sinks deeper into the crack of her ass.

“Rick...” she whispers, grasping, desperate, for a reason to say no. “Sandra's right upstairs—“

“Sandra sleeps through anything. You know that.” His hand drifts back up her side to smooth against her back, pressing hard as he runs it up and down, working Beth's tightened muscles. He kisses her neck, her jaw. “I want you,” he murmurs.

“Why?”

“I need a reason?”

“Yeah. Yeah you do.”

Rick snorts, pushing his hand up to the back of her neck, massaging the muscles, and Beth is stunned by the image of him doing the same, but against her throat—and it doesn't revolt her. It doesn't revolt her at all.

She realizes he's speaking, and struggles to pay attention.

“You're a beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing behind her ear. His hand begins drifting down again, skimming, this time, over her camisole. “You're kind, and gentle.” He arches up and palms her butt, squeezing until she moans. “Got an ass to _die_ for.” Beth huffs, a little disbelievingly, then freezes as his hand slips lower, between her legs, cupping her sex from behind. He leans close to her ear as she trembles; strokes her cheek with the hand he's leaning on; smiles against her skin. “And you're a poor, sad orphan. And you deserve to feel good.”

Beth feels tears prick at her eyes, and she squeezes them shut, clenching her teeth. His hand moves down from her cheek to touch her lips, trace them as she composes herself. He continues to rub soothingly at her sex, making her moan despite herself.

“And I won't say no?” she whispers.

“You can if you want to.” He takes a neck muscle between his teeth and bites. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough. Beth whimpers, and he whispers, almost hisses against her skin, “But I don't think you want to.”

“I don't want to,” Beth whispers.

“Don't want to what, baby?”

“Don't want to say no.”

She _feels_ his smile—not just in the teeth that skim the side of her neck, or the mouth, parted and wet; she feels it in the finger on her lips, the way the knuckles flexes; she feels it between her legs as he takes her flesh and _squeezes_.

“Ah, Rick,” she gasps, and he takes advantage of her open mouth to press his finger inside. The flavor of his skin bursts on her tongue and she moans again, louder, latching onto it and laving with her tongue, chasing that taste.

“That's it, baby,” he whispers, kissing the shell of her ear, scraping the skin behind with his teeth. His hand on her cunt squeezes again, moving back and forth to get her lips to roll. Beth knows she's wet, could feel it leaking out of her even as she fell asleep, but she's still shocked in a deep, instinctual way when Rick presses her just right and she _squelches_.

“Rick—“

“Get me wet, baby.”

“Oh god—“

He's moved down from the fleshy part of her lips now, rubbing in circles on the flesh around her clit. Beth's hips move with him, chasing his hand, looking for the friction she can't quite reach, the way he refuses to part her, slip inside—instead he continues the maddening, maddening pressure, kissing down her jaw until his mouth is right over the bulge he makes with his own finger. As he breathes against her, he adds another two fingers and Beth _moans—_ her lips stretched in a way that blasts heat inside her stomach, Rick's hand on her cunt, his fingers swinging to the side and hooking her mouth, dragging on her until she's forced to get a hand under her to twist her torso so he doesn't break her neck.

He stops then—pauses, stalls everything, and after a moment of nothing Beth grunts, swivels her hips against him, looking for the press of his fingers and his cock hovering just out of reach—and when he doesn't move she grunts again and opens her eyes, eyes that bulge when he lands a slap right across her pussy.

“Oh—“

“You're a bad little girl,” he murmurs, pulling harder at the corner of her mouth, twisting his own body just enough that she can see one of his eyes, and she knows he can see one of hers—wide and rolling, desperate and a little scared, and she thinks she sees a flash of heat go through him as he takes all that in. He's still withholding his cock, suspending his hips above her and she's about to go _mad_. “You know why?”

She just looks at him, panting, and she sees it in his eyes a moment before he spanks her again.

“Tell me why!”

“I don't know,” Beth whispers, words tumbling over each other. “I don't—oh god, Rick, please—“

Another slap, and the sounds pouring from Beth's stretched mouth sound an inch away from sobs.

“You do know,” he whispers, rubbing over almost tenderly across the stinging flesh. “You knew when you did it, filthy girl.”

“I don't—“

Two slaps this time, in quick succession. Beth doesn't sob this time, but groans, a sound that comes like a whine from her open mouth. She struggles to get her thoughts together, pull them in from where Rick's heat and hands have torn them apart. She thinks _today, what happened today, I cleaned and then Jimmy came and Jimmy—_

“Jimmy,” she gasps, sounding more like, “Ji'y.”

“That little boy?”

“Yes!”

“Good girl.”

And Rick fists his hand in the fabric of her pajama bottoms and yanks; she lifts her trembling hips to help him and collapses again when he brings his knees between hers and shoves them open, nearly dropping one off the edge of the couch. She feels some of his heat leave her as he pulls back; his fingers drag from her mouth and she collapses, jaw aching. She does not relax, though; like earlier, she feels his eyes on her like cattle brands, and she's instinctively trying to close her legs when he spanks her again.

“Ah!”

“You shouldn't have kissed him, Beth,” he says, voice dark as coal, sending a shiver up her spine that he sees, that he touches, that makes him chuckle as he palms her stinging ass. “Why did you kiss him like that? Boy looked surprised. Like it was a special occasion.”

“Cause...”

He spanks her again, grips her ass as she whimpers. “Louder.”

“I wanted more, I wanted, didn't want him—“

“Who did you want, Beth?”

“You,” she whispers. “I wanted...”

She trails off, gasping, fisting the couch as he squeezes her ass again and with the other hand slips two fingers between her pussy lips.

“This what you wanted?” he whispers. “My fingers in your pussy?” He slides them into her entrance and she chokes and he groans. “My fingers... fuck, you're fucking _dripping_ aren't you? Jesus, you are.” He sounds a little awed about it. Beth turns her head, trying to see him, and what she sees sends a jolt of electricity straight to her cunt: He hovers over her in gloom of the room, one hand on her ass, the other buried in her cunt, his eyes gobbling her up like a monster in a fairytale as his plump lips hang open, pink tongue peeking though between them.

It's too dark to see details, too dark to learn him like she wants to; but when he looks up and meets her eyes, when he grins, when he pulls his hand from her ass and fists himself with a groan—that's when she sees the glistening of the tip in the dark, how the shadow of it arches, how it jerks under his hand and she feels incoherent as she shoves her hips off the couch, driving his fingers deeper inside her and brushing her ass against the knuckles around his erection.

She barely registers his fingers pulling from her pussy before his hand is slapping down on her face, shoving her to the couch like he had shoved Sandra to the mattress and smearing her with her own juices from mouth to brow.

“Stay down,” he growls, and she lowers her hips to the couch, whimpering at the pressure on her temple. And suddenly it's all of him pressing her into the couch again, and he doesn't mediate his weight; actively pushes her down with the weight of his torso, shoves her until her cheekbones ache. “I was gonna eat you out, you know,” he murmurs. “Was gonna put my face in that sweet pussy, lick your ass, bite at your little clit.”

“Please—“

“That's only for good girls,” he whispers, and then his cock is against her and she can't breathe.

He's angled it down with his hand so it goes between her ass cheeks, between her thighs, between her lips as he nudges them apart with his fingers. She begins trembling, uncontrollable even as he presses her down harder, re-situates himself so he has some leverage and slides forward until he hits her clit with his weeping cock.

“Oh!” she gasps, and gasps again when he does it again, a smooth drag this time so she can actually feel a drop of his precum dribble out across her clit. He's heavy and smooth like an ivory tusk between her legs, but it's not enough, it isn't enough—he still won't let her close her legs and the only thing keeping him against her is the press of his own hand, and all she wants—

He must know she's unsatisfied, because he begins chuckling again. It only makes her buck into the couch, choking a whimper.

“You want something, baby?”

“I... ah...”

“Words, sweetheart. I know you know them.”

“Please Rick.”

And then his hand is off her cheek and sliding down and cupping loosely around her throat.

She stops moving. She stops breathing. She swears for a moment her heart skips a beat.

And he leans forward. And his cock presses harder. And his lips, his full, red lips, come to hover a millimeter from her ear; when he speaks, it sounds like it's coming from inside her head.

“Beg.”

“Please,” she whispers. His hand tightens infinitesimally on her throat, and something in her panics. “Please Rick, please, please, your, I want, I want your cock, your cock, please—“ and she is sobbing now, the past months pouring out of her along with her words and she almost feels him pull away before she shoves back against him, cries growing louder and louder, “I want it, I want your cock, fuck me Rick, fuck, fuck, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme—“

His grip on her throat tightens, choking off her words, a moment before he re-angles himself and shoves inside her.

Beth gags and Rick groans and loosens his hold on her neck as he relaxes into her body. She feels his head thrown back as he adjusts to her, his chest rising and falling against her, his cock itself burning, stretching her cunt like his fingers had stretched her mouth.

“Sweetheart—“

“Rick...”

“Oh baby, you don't know how this feels.”

“Fuck me,” she whispers.

And this time, he obliges.

He starts with a slow rocking, letting her adjust to him, letting her slow her tears and get her breath back before he begins moving more, long, slow rolls of his hips and she realizes that this is how she saw him fuck Sandra and it makes her hot and cold all over.

When she reaches towards her clit his hand flashes out to stop her.

He silences her whine with a press on her throat. “You let me do that, baby,” he whispers, kissing the back of her neck with open mouth and laving tongue. She obeys him, again scratching the couch with her nails as his hand lowers, skims her hip, and finds the bundle of nerves standing hard as the cock inside her.

“Baby girl,” he whispers as she whimpers around a bitten lip, inner muscles clenching as he drags back and forth, literally throbbing as he drives against her flesh, screws her into the cushion, bites hard at her shoulder until she can feel the bruise beneath blooming. He strokes her and his hips snap, gathering speed, chasing her pants and the pulse in her throat that he presses with his thumb, feeling it pound as they pound together and his mouth kisses down—

And Beth looks up and sees her mother's apron. And everything slows.

It is hanging just inside the kitchen. Yellow, frills, covered in ruffles and the fringe that her father thought so ridiculous when she brought it home from the market. And Beth remembers, from her vantage at the kitchen table, the way her mother slipped it over her head, took a step away from her husband, twirled, giggled like a girl as he laughed. He stepped forward then, encircled her in his arms, and they twirled together—her arms outstretched, her toes barely touching the floor as she trusted her weight to his hold. They spun and Beth laughed and they dragged her into their embrace so her face ended up buried in the apron, the apron that hangs, that has hung from her neck and Sandra's and Sandra—

It's Sandra's boyfriend's cock that she has buried inside her. It's her mother in the kitchen watching them.

It's Rick slowing, still buried inside her but no longer moving, his hand dropping away from her throat.

“Beth?”

“No,” she whispers. She bucks her hip, grabs Rick's hand, sinks her nails into it. “No!”

“You gotta tell me what—“

“Fuck me, you bastard,” she growls. “Take your goddamn prick and _fuck me_.”

And he does.

He snarls, first. Fists a hand in her hair and drags her up, driving her hips towards the couch and closer to his hand that flicks against her clit like a salmon's fin in the current and she has to drop one leg off the couch to brace on the floor so she doesn't fly apart.

He jerks into her, hard. He yanks her hair, he thrusts, he scrapes his nail across her clit. And suddenly it sounds like he's the one begging.

“You like this, Beth?” he whispers, hips pistoning, driving her into the couch, “Your boy feel like this? His cock this big? He feel this good inside you, Beth? He make you want to come like this?”

“No, no, no—“

“You're gonna come, baby. Gonna come all over my cock, flood me, come on baby, give it to me, you're gonna feel _good_.”

“No—“

“You're gonna feel good again, Beth,” he whispers.

She comes like a shotgun.

It's _violent_ , the bolt that shoots through her, zinging inside her like a pinball gathering speed as it rockets from her hands to the tips of her toes, and Rick has to slap a hand across her mouth to muffle the sobbing scream she emits as she squeezes him, legs jerking, hands clenching, the tips of her fingers going numb as she comes and comes.

And Rick's pulling out of her. He's still stroking her clit, stroking her through it, but his cock slides from her pussy and she's clenching on nothing as she gasps for breath, whole body shuddering. And still he touches her—fondling her clit, petting her hair, pressing light, soft kisses to her shoulders and back. And when at last she stills he lifts off her and with a hand on her collarbone flips her to her back.

Her eyes are more used to the dark, now, and she can see him—not quite clear as day, but clear enough. Clear enough to see his cock still bullet hard, precum dripping down the shaft. Clear enough to see his hair, plastered to his forehead and tousled and wild. His eyes—soft on her. Looking up and down the curves of her and landing on her eyes, where he smiles. Not feral. Not snarling.

A smile. Just a smile. His eyes crinkle. Lines emerge from his forehead and cheeks. A smile.

Beth feels wetness on her face and realizes she's still crying.

Rick scoots as far down the couch as he can go, and leans down. He does not go for her clit, still tingling and hard, but her stomach; raises her shirt to kiss the ridge of her lower muscles, the spot above her belly button. He continues up, along her sternum; sucks her nipples through her camisole until they stand rock-hard and aching. He looks at her, and he kisses her on the lips. Soft, fleeting. He presses his forehead to hers, and feels her breathe.

“What can I do, honey?” he whispers. “What can I do for you?”

_Kill me_ , she almost says.  _Press on my throat until I stop breathing. Take me away, across the ocean, across the world. Take me back, Lord, please take me back._

She doesn't say that. But she looks in his eyes, and she thinks, maybe she does.

“Use me,” she whispers back. “Make me forget.”

He is silent, watching her face. He touches her cheek, where he had sucked his own fingers through her flesh—what feels like a lifetime ago, now. She parts her lips, licks them bright. He nods, and kisses her again; long, lingering. Making her ache.

He rises, and crawls up her body.

Beth closes her eyes as he positions himself, knees braced around her head, pushing her down the couch a few inches so he lines up right. He touches her cheeks again, and she opens her eyes.

His balls hang heavy in her face, lightly furred, dangling below his quivering cock. His stomach ripples as he breathes. He's far enough away that she can't see his eyes in the dark. But she knows he's watching her.

She opens her mouth.

He grips himself with his other hand, tilts his cock down; keeps his hand on her cheek as he presses in. Beth breathes in deeply through her nose as she tastes herself; closes her eyes as her taste washes away and she tastes him. So far it's just a few inches, barely more than the tip, but already she feels like she's floating.

He pushes farther.

Beth brings her hands up to brace on his hips, give her some sense of control; she expects him to smack her away, but he allows it; even covers her hand on his hipbone briefly, squeezes her fingers. He removes his hand and her eyes flutter open. He's braced it on the couch arm behind her and he's looking down, watching what he can of his cock between her lips. She hums against him, and he gasps, soft; his hand tightens at the base of his shaft, like he's trying to control something too.

“Christ, Beth,” he whispers. She hums again, more insistent, and he groans. He bows his head further, pierces her with his hidden eyes; and begins to move.

They're shallow thrusts at first; small movements that slide his cock across her tongue, nudging the circumcised head against the top of her mouth. He doesn't try to go any farther, not yet; just starts up a slow rocking motion as Beth massages him with her lips, lets her tongue lie flat but pushes it up occasionally, pressing him to the top of her mouth. He groans again, louder; hangs his head, so he can watch her closer. She hears his nails scratch the fabric of the couch as he tightens his grip.

“Can I go deeper?” he asks, voice strangled, and that word drifting through Beth's head almost makes her laugh.

She hums again, fluttering her lashes, and he gives one more shallow thrust, two, then pushes his way into her throat.

She gags instantly, eyes bulging and bursting into tears as her throat spasms. Rick only stays in her for a few seconds before he eases off, breathing hard. It's hard to tell but she thinks his eyes are wide. His legs are trembling.

“Again?” he whispers. She hums.

He does it again. One, two, go.

He does it again and again, staying inside her for longer each time, hissing through his teeth as her gag reflex works his cock. And then he can't give her the one, two, and he stays in her, thrusting in short sharp jerks, pressing her nose to his public hair and groaning loud and with a sharp little grunt he comes down her throat.

He pulls out before he's finished, and a few bursts spurt over Beth's lips as she gasps for breath, coughing and heaving. Rick moves down her body quickly, helps her sit and pull up her pajamas before vanishing. She hears the tap run, and he comes back with a glass of water. He puts a hand on the back of her neck and holds the glass to her lips and helps her drink it a sip at a time.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. She slumps against him. Only halfway through the glass, but he sets it aside, gathers her close. She leans her head on his shoulder and sniffs, wincing a little when it aggravates her throat. He strokes her hair and presses a kiss to her temple. His hand finds its way into hers. He squeezes. She squeezes back.

“Good girl,” he whispers, holding her tight. “Sweet girl. My sweet, good girl.”

She closes her eyes. Leans on him. Drifts. Mouths the words as he whispers them into her skin, over and over—trying their taste, touching their tenor. 

_Good girl._

_Good girl_

_Good..._

* * *

Beth jerks violently as someone shakes her shoulder, eyes flying open with a gasp.

“Where's Rick?”

Beth breathes heavily, pressing a hand to her chest. She struggles to sit up, blinking through bleary eyes at Sandra in front of her. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She clears her throat, manages through her scratchy throat, “What?”

“Rick,” Sandra says. “He left during the night, didn't leave a note, didn't... did you hear him come through here?

Beth pauses, blinking at her, then shakes her head. “No. No, I didn't.”

“Goddamn,” Sandra mutters, running a hand through her hair. “I'll try calling him again.”

“Ok.”

Beth watches her walk off, past the yellow apron and into the kitchen. She hears her voice, muffled by the drywall between them. Beth looks at the table, and sees a half full glass of water. She reaches forward, and drains it in one gulp.

There is a knock on the door.

Sandra comes bursting from the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the floor until she skids to a stop, composing herself before throwing it wide.

By the slump of her shoulders, Beth knows who it isn't.

She sits up at the voice. She can hardly believe who it is.

“Hey Sandra. Is Beth around?”

_Maggie_ , Beth mouths.

And there is her sister. Grinning, shining, jubilant. She hugs Beth tight, sits beside her. Shows her a sheaf of paper. Puts a pen in her hand.

Beth leaves that very morning. Spirited away with barely a goodbye to a distracted Sandra, phone still glued to her ear. Sits in the car with Maggie, watching the world stream past. Maggie reaches for her hand, and Beth meets her.

* * *

It is not good, living with Maggie and Glenn, but it is better. And Beth is learning that sometimes that's as good as it will get.

She's learning that maybe that isn't the tragedy she thought it was.

They are out to Sunday brunch, the three of them. Beth likes Glenn—likes how he treats Maggie, likes how he treats her, like after three weeks she's already analogous to the kid sister he left behind in Michigan. Right now he's gazing at Maggie as she talks, recounting some story from their childhood that Beth's heard dozens of times. She meets Beth's eyes partway through it, pauses. Smiles, like they are no more than children.

She's learning that maybe they never will be.

They run into some of Glenn's friends from work outside the restaurant, and pause to speak with them. Maggie takes up enough airtime for both of them, and so Beth lets her attention drift, scanning the sunny square absently, watching the people. Watches them pass, watches them flow, watches them live. Watches them in the sun.

It doesn't startle her, when recognition comes. She doesn't jump, or even flinch. Her heartbeat might even slow.

He's with his children. He pushes the stroller while a boy who must be Carl walks beside him, trying to eat his way around a massive ice cream cone. He is laughing at the boy—at his efforts, or something he said. Judith begins to fuss, and they pause. He comes around the front of the carriage, unbuckles her, pulls her into his arms. He kisses her head, cups her cheek with one large hand. He says something to Carl, and the boy begins rooting around in the stroller, coming up with a bottle. He hands it to him; smiles his own little smile as Judith latches onto it, sucking eagerly, like there's nothing else she could want in the world.

“Beth? You ready to go?”

Beth does jump, then, turning around. Glenn's friends are gone, and it's only the three of them. Maggie is looking at her, her expression a little concerned even as she smiles. Beth looks at her sister, looks at Glenn. She turns and sees him strapping Judith back into her stroller, walking around to the back, beginning to push. She sees him walking away.

“I'll be right back,” Beth says.

She doesn't run. Doesn't even jog. Follows his sideways walk across the courtyard, trailing him through the midday crowd.

It's only when he's about to turn onto a sidestreet that she calls.

“Rick!”

At first she thinks he didn't hear, because he keeps walking, and she prepares to call again when he slows, pulls the stroller to a stop. She pauses as well, in the middle of the square; stands on her two feet, sun on her neck, hands clenched into soft little fists. When he turns, her heart does speed up.

He meets her eyes. 

He looks at Carl. Says something. Meets her eyes again. Leaves the stroller behind.

Beth lets herself step forward, then; takes one step, then two, and then she's jogging those half dozen steps it takes to meet him in the middle. 

She slows as they approach each other. 

_His eyes look different in the sun,_ she thinks.

He's just looking at her. Not quite soaking her in, because his gaze does not move from her eyes. Looking. Just looking. Holding her there, like a lover's first touch.

Beth lowers her chin, lets her lips crawl up her face.

“Hey there, Sheriff.”

He takes a step. He reaches for her. He touches her cheek.

He smiles.

 


End file.
